Sequel to Solitaire.
"Hey, buchou!"
It doesn't register at first. Ryoma calmly continues with what he's doing sorting through the club lists Ryuzaki-sensei has given him, boring enough to put him to sleep and ignores Horio's grating voice with the ease of long practice. He's wondering whether any promise is worth this when Horio pants up beside him like an overgrown, over-enthusiastic puppy. Ryoma's always been a cat person.
"Oi, buchou!"
Ryoma blinks, and stares for a long moment, having to quell the automatic impulse to glance over his shoulder. "What?" he asks, eventually, when it's obvious that the idiot isn't going to go and bother someone else, or conveniently disappear.
"When are you going to hold the ranking matches?" Horio demands far too excitedly, and Ryoma holds back a wince, trying to breathe in calm.
"Next week," he mutters, eyeing the loathed paperwork pointedly. "I'm trying to sort out the blocks." The situation, of course, couldn't be more different to his own first year, with three Regular spots yet unfilled, and an unfortunate lack of conveniently talented first years. He will have to make do with what he can, but he thinks he might just know how Tezuka-buchou felt about this anyway. Trying to split the club members up evenly, in a way that will allow the most talented to shine, is threatening to break his brain.
At least it's Saturday, and club practice will be over by mid-afternoon. Then he can put the damn schedules up on the board and get the hell out of here. Saturday afternoon games are the best, and the calculating part of him knows that after this week of attempting to supervise clumsy kouhai, Ryoma needs a challenge.
"Excellent!" Horio grins as though Ryoma is supposed to care, and begins spouting some nonsense about being certain to make it onto the Regulars this season. Ryoma thinks that Seigaku would have to be in dire straits indeed before that'd happen, but tunes him out easily, bending to add the last few names to the forms strewn across the bench. How the hell did Momo-senpai put up with this last year, anyway?
Actually, Ryoma realises as Horio strikes a pose, gesticulating rather wildly for the benefit of the first-year faces gathered by the fence, Kaidoh-senpai probably did most of the work. That wouldn't surprise him at all.
Shuffling the stupid paperwork into some semblance of order, Ryoma looks up, staring round the courts just as his watch beeps from his pocket. Far too many eyes look suddenly away, the arrhythmic thud of balls hitting baskets suddenly doubling. He swallows the urge to roll his eyes as he stands.
"Clear up the balls," Ryoma demands, not waiting to see whether his orders are obeyed as he trudges off to Ryuzaki-sensei's office. A chorus of "hai, buchou!" follows him, loud enough to make him twitch; he's not a captain and he knows it. Buchou, to Ryoma, will always be the tall silent figure watching everything from the bench. No matter how he tries to model himself on that familiar stern watchfulness, he is never going to be Tezuka.
It would be almost funny, he supposes as he dumps the club folder on Ryuzaki-sensei's empty desk. Funny, because he's spent years trying to catch up to Tezuka, trying to absorb what he is, what he knows. Almost, because in all that time he's never paid attention to anything other than Tezuka's skills and presence as a player. Ryoma has always seen his opponents as people to learn from, but he has never given a thought to things like leadership and teamwork. This year, being Seigaku's pillar is going to be difficult.
Either the bus is late or his watch is wrong. Ryoma leans against the pillar of the school gatepost and tugs his cap irritably down to shade his eyes. These Saturday afternoon matches have been a fixture in his life for almost a year now. Ryoma knows that his stupid father is probably dying of curiosity, but he can think what he likes. It's a little annoying being cross-examined about 'dates' every weekend, but it's not his fault his old man's a pervert. It's never crossed his mind to actually explain, because to him it's obvious, and why the hell else would he travel so far out of his way?
The bus finally arrives in a hiss of air-brakes, and Ryoma makes his way to his accustomed seat at the back, dumping his racquet bag onto the seat beside him. A middle-aged woman with a little girl in tow looks down her nose at him, but he ignores her. Like hell he's going to change back into his stupid school uniform just to take a bus ride across the city.
It's five stops to the park where they play; Ryoma counts them automatically, most of his mind on last week's game. He hasn't beaten his ex-Captain yet, but he's been able to force him to match-point a few times, and he knows that he's getting closer. What makes it exciting, of course, is that Tezuka is growing too. Sometimes they don't play proper matches at all, just trade and practice new skills and techniques that they've learned. Sometimes Tezuka-buchou puts him through drill after drill, refining the Twist Serve, or practising his right backhand. It's as though Ryoma is a project of his, as though he's waiting and watching for something.
He's standing and moving towards the exit before the bus even slows, not having to think about it as he jumps lightly to the pavement. He doesn't look back, feet taking him automatically towards the courts on the far side of the park, where he knows Tezuka will be waiting for him as usual. Even at this distance, he can hear the off-tone thwack of bad gut as the dumb old guys who have the court booked before them engage in a typically mediocre rally.
Tezuka doesn't look up or even acknowledge him as Ryoma sets his racquet bag down, joining him on the bench overlooking the court. They study the ongoing match in silence for a while, waiting out the ten minutes left in the hour.
"It's more difficult than I thought," Ryoma announces at last, wincing as the white-haired old guy Tanaka-san or whichever one he is makes a sloppy mess of his footwork. "I can't be like you."
Tezuka is silent for a moment before turning his head to look down at Ryoma. "You shouldn't try to be. Every captain has his own style. Find yours." It's not advice or even a request, it's an order. Ryoma understands.
"I'd rather just play," he mutters though, staring straight ahead almost viciously. He knows that Tezuka is smiling at him, that little expression that barely tilts the corners of his mouth.
"No one likes the paperwork. Your job is to inspire them to try and follow you." Tezuka looks away, rising easily as time is called and the players begin packing up. Ryoma watches him walk towards the fence for a moment, tall and commanding and so very much the image of what a captain should be. Maybe the other club members are supposed to follow him, but Ryoma knows that he will always be following Tezuka.
A long moment, and then Tezuka-buchou is looking back at him, afternoon sun sifting through his hair and making his eyes opaque behind his glasses.
"Your serve, buchou."